Wedding speech samples

Forty-five minutes. That's how long Jamie and I sat in a supermarket car park — not shopping, not waiting for anyone — because he couldn't decide which car wash to go to. There were two options. Two. And at some point during that forty-five minutes, he called me. For advice. About a car wash. I picked up because I thought something was wrong. Nothing was wrong. He just needed a second opinion on whether the 'Premium Wax' was worth the extra three quid. For fifteen years I have loved this man like a brother. And for fifteen years, ordering for him at a restaurant has been a full-time job. So when I got a text from him at 11pm — not a cricket score, which is the only other reason he texts that late — saying he'd found the right person, I knew he meant it. Because Jamie does not make quick decisions. That text meant he was absolutely certain. And then I met Priya, and I understood. I don't know what she did — I genuinely don't, and I've studied this — but Jamie now books restaurants in advance. In advance. The man who once spent a week deciding between two identical black jumpers is making reservations. That is not a small thing. That is a transformation I had written off as medically impossible. Priya doesn't just make him decisive. She makes him calm. She makes him the best, clearest version of himself — the version that was always in there, just waiting for someone who brought it out without even trying. And Jamie — I was there for the car wash. I know how long it takes you to be certain about anything. So when I say that watching you today, I can see it — the certainty — you'll understand why that means something. Ladies and gentlemen, please raise your glasses. To Jamie and Priya — may your life together be full of easy decisions, and may she always have the final say.

When Emma was nine years old, she decided she was going to learn to ride her bike without stabilisers. She fell off. She got back up. She fell off again. She got back up again. I was counting. By the seventh fall I thought maybe we should call it a day. By the ninth I'd given up suggesting that. On the twelfth try, she rode off down the street and didn't look back. No celebration. No turning round to check I'd seen. She'd done the thing. That was sufficient. I've thought about that afternoon a lot over the years. Because that's Emma. Not the falling — though there was plenty of that — but the getting back up. Every single time. Without being asked, without being pushed. Just because she'd decided. And then Luca came into her life. I had a quiet checklist. Most fathers do, even when they pretend they don't. I watched. I paid attention. And then I heard her laugh. Not a polite laugh. Not the laugh she uses when she's being kind about a bad joke. The real one — the one I hadn't heard properly since she was small. Luca makes her laugh like that. Easy, and often, and completely unselfconsciously. That was the whole checklist, right there. Luca, I want to say something to you directly. She fell off that bike eleven times. She didn't ask me for encouragement, didn't wait for me to say she could do it. She just got back up, because she'd decided. That's what you're getting. And that's what I'm trusting you with. And Emma — watching you today, beside someone who makes you laugh like that, who looks at you the way Luca does — I'm very proud. I have been for a long time. Since a garden, a bike, and a twelfth try. Ladies and gentlemen, would you please raise your glasses. To Emma and Luca. May your life together have all the joy of that twelfth try.